


a cold and broken hallelujah

by angelsdemonsducks



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Established Relationship, Hamilton Gift Exchange 2k16, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 06:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8738794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: Alex Hamilton has never been one to seek help. Even when he needs it.And he needs it.(Most of the time, he’s glad no one’s noticed what a downward spiral he’s on. Some of the time, he isn’t.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllieCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllieCat/gifts).



> My place holder title for this was "the one with all the line breaks", no joke.
> 
> Hope this is is good! :)

Later, Alex doesn’t remember how he managed to get home. He only knows that he does, somehow, closing the door behind him with a noise that is somewhere between a sigh and a sob.

He is thankful that Aaron is working late tonight. Is thankful that Aaron texted him to tell him this hours ago, because otherwise, he would be frantic, scrambling for excuses and denials and ways to cover it up because _this didn’t happen Aaron can’t know he can’t can’t can’t-_

Aaron is a thoughtful boyfriend. Aaron does everything right. Alex used to think… but no, there has to be something wrong with him, after- after-

 _Breathe,_ he all but yells at himself. _Your issues can go on the fucking backburner for once. What’s he gonna do if he comes home and finds you in the middle of a panic attack?_

This thought doesn’t help to calm him down, but it does help him focus past the thrumming of his heart and the pounding in his head. Aaron has never seen him have a panic attack. A year and a half they’ve been dating, and Aaron doesn’t even know he has panic attacks. Or had. He’d been doing so much better, hadn’t had one in ages before- before-

_Doesn’t matter now. You’ve gone and broken again. And once he finds out, he’ll leave._

_Stop it._

He makes his way into the bathroom, fumbles for the light. The bright fluorescents almost blind him as they flicker to life, and he blinks, stumbles. Movement flashes in the corner of his eye and he whirls around, hands raised, thoughts of _hands on him touching feeling everywhere stop stop it hurts no_ stabbing through him like daggers of ice, but wait, no, it’s only his reflection in the mirror. He pauses, staring into his own hollowed, empty eyes. He looks like shit, his eyes puffy and red and swollen ( _he sobbed and begged him to stop but he didn’t_ ), his cheeks already turning a mottled combination of purple and yellow ( _he hit him when he wouldn’t stop struggling, hit him again and again and again and again and_ ), his clothes ripped and torn ( _he didn’t stop fighting, didn’t stop until he couldn’t anymore and all there was was_ ).

He should probably-

What does he need to-

Shower. He needs to shower.

He locks the door behind him and strips slowly, hyper aware of the way every part of him hurts. He doesn’t look at himself, refuses to look at the places he knows are-

He turns the shower on to its hottest setting, relishing the way the water scalds and burns and hurts. And he scrubs, scrubs himself raw, scratches and claws at himself until he can almost pretend he doesn’t feel the hands on him, doesn’t feel them _touching him stop stop stop please-_

Blood starts dripping onto the floor, swirling down the drain, and Alex realizes it’s his. His nails have broken the skin. Dazedly, he turns off the water and steps out of the shower, ignoring the way the blood and water drips off of him and intermingles in small puddles on the tile. There is a first aid kit in the cabinet; Aaron keeps it there because Alex is always getting into fights, always coming home dirty or bloodied, always being such a bother-

He cleans himself, and then he cleans the rest. The clothes go in the bottom of the trash, and the trash is taken out. The bathroom floor is scrubbed until it shines. The first aid kit goes back where he found it, neatly packed.

Aaron still isn’t home. So Alex goes to bed, lays in the dark where he is all alone with himself and the memories that refuse to leave him be.

 _The man leers and he backs away but the man keeps coming closer and his hands are on him and he tugs his pants down and he struggles he struggles but he can’t get away and he doesn’t want it he doesn’t want it and then ripping and tearing and burning and he thrusts again and again and again and he wants it to stop but it doesn’t stop he doesn’t stop he_ curls in on himself, stuffing a fist in his mouth to hold back the sob that’s threatening to rip its way out of his throat. He is shaking violently, but he barely notices, caught in the maelstrom in his mind.

 _Dirty,_ his mind whispers. _You’re dirty, bad, wrong, wrong, wrong, you’re_ tainted.

And distantly, as if through a thick fog or down a long tunnel, he hears the front door opening. Every muscle in his body tenses, and he goes still.

“Alex?” Aaron calls, _Aaron, it’s Aaron, it’s not him, why are you scared-_ “You home?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but it has gone dry, and no sound comes out. So he lies still, waiting for Aaron to come to him.

_Oh god, he can’t know, he’ll find out he’ll find out you’re dirty and bad and wrong and a broken mess and he’ll hate you, they’ll all hate you and you’ll be-_

The bedroom door cracks open, and light comes spilling in from the hallway. “Alex?” Aaron asks, sounding uncertain, sounding worried, and Alex hates himself for making him worried. Aaron is the best boyfriend in the entire world, he doesn’t deserve to be saddled with a guy like him. “Alex, are you okay?” he asks, and oh, he sounds like he’s on the verge of panic now, and no, that won’t do.

“Fine,” he says, careful to keep his voice low and quiet to mask the tremor in it, the shaking he can’t seem to control. “I’m fine. Just really tired.” _Wait, the bruises. You’re going to have bruises tomorrow. Explain the bruises._ “I got into a fight,” he admits, and winces at the sharp intake of breath that produces.

“Alex, sit up for me,” Aaron says. His footsteps move away and the lights come on, making Alex squint. And he doesn’t want to sit up, really, _really_ doesn’t want to, but it’ll be suspicious if he doesn’t, so he levers himself into an upright position and risks casting a glance in Aaron’s direction. He is crouched by the bed, still impeccably dressed, his brow knitted in concern. As soon as he catches sight of the damage done, his eyes widen.

“Alex,” he breathes. “Jesus Christ, what happened?”

He shrugs, trying for nonchalant, though he doubts Aaron is fooled. He’s not a very good liar in the first place, and Aaron has a tendency to see right through him. God, this is going to be hard. “Like I said, a fight,” he repeats. It’ll probably help that he’s only half-lying, right? “A guy was being an asshole-” True- “so I confronted him about it.” Also true. He’s just going to omit what happened next. _I got in over my head. I would have lost a fistfight if it’d come to that, but my pride wouldn’t let me back down. He must’ve found that attractive._ “I’m just really tired now,” he finishes, and he knows how lame that sounds, and he knows Aaron knows something’s up. But it he plays his cards right, Aaron won’t be able to figure out exactly what it is, and this will all… what, go away? Blow over? Not likely. But he’ll figure something out. He has to.

Aaron studies him carefully, and he tries his best to hide the jolt of fear that sends through him. “You already patched yourself up?” he asks quietly, a hand coming up to trace over the dark blotches on his face. He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. He can barely handle the touch, even though he knows that this is Aaron, that he loves him, that he would never hurt him.

He nods, scoots back a little in a way he hopes won’t be too obvious. If Aaron thinks anything of it, he doesn’t mention it. “Yeah, I did,” he says. “I’d… just really like to go to bed now.”

Aaron is silent for a moment, and he resists the urge to hide under the covers. “Alright,” he says at length, and Alex has never been so grateful that his boyfriend doesn’t tend toward being overemotional, has never been so grateful that his coming home a bloody mess is a common enough occurrence that Aaron doesn’t question it further. “I guess I shouldn't be complaining that you’re actually going to get some sleep. You sure you’re okay?”

Alex nods, and Aaron sighs, leaning in to kiss him on the forehead. Alex bears it.

Needless to say, he doesn’t get any sleep that night. He lies awake in the dark, his mind running around in circles and abandoning him whenever he tries to think of something else. And when Aaron finally comes to bed too, slipping under the covers beside him, he goes on high alert, making sure they stay on opposite sides of the bed.

He can’t handle contact right now.

He just… can’t.

* * *

 

He goes to work. Perhaps it’s ill advised, perhaps it’ll only make everything worse, but he needs to work, he needs to be able to bury himself in writing and not think about anything else. And for a while, he does alright. He writes and types and almost manages to forget everything, almost manages to erase what happened.

But that only works as long as he is working. Eventually, he has to go home, or someone will figure it out. So he does. He goes home, he spends time with Aaron, he acts like every touch that passes between them doesn’t make his skin crawl, doesn’t make him want to flinch back and run for the hills.

 _You wouldn’t touch me if I told you what happened,_ he doesn’t say. _You wouldn’t want to._

He never initiates any contact himself. Right now, that’s not something he could do without breaking down.

He is getting better at this, this acting, this pretending, this _lying_ as time goes on. He’s better at coming up with excuses for being on his own, better at figuring out reasons why he needs to stay at work later, better at avoiding Aaron whenever he seems like he might be in the mood for-

Because he can’t handle that. He’s certain of that. A couple of nights after… _it_ , he tried to get himself off, to see if he could, to see if it would help get rid of the thoughts and memories and unwanted emotions that have been broiling in his head. But he was in tears by the end of it, and that was with his own hand. He doesn’t want to think about how he might react if it was someone else’s, even Aaron’s. So, he makes sure that won’t happen, and god, he knows that’s going to make Aaron suspect something, but he doesn’t care, he just can’t, he really _can’t_ , and god, if that doesn’t prove that there’s something wrong with him then-

The days pass in a blur, and he forges ahead with determination. He will make it through this. He will. He has to. And he will do so without anyone knowing, because he doesn’t need help, he can _do_ this, and if they figure it out, they’ll be disgusted. He knows he is, so why wouldn’t they be? And he has some of the best friends anyone could ask for, so he can’t risk losing them. Because to lose them would kill him, of that he is sure.

There are different coping mechanisms out there. If he can’t work, he doesn’t want to think, so he finds himself seeking ways of release. He gets a hold of some cocaine, but he figures out pretty quickly that he doesn’t like that, doesn’t like the way it makes his mind race, and besides, its side effects are more noticeable. He doesn’t want to get caught. Marijuana is a better choice, safer, easier to find, fewer dangers, more commonly used. No harm in a little pot. It makes him feel like he’s floating, and he doesn’t want to come back down to ground.

This is unhealthy. He knows that. But what else can he do?

So what if he’s using now? So what if the only times he feels remotely happy are when he’s high? So what if, when he can’t get a supply, he seeks other alternatives?

It doesn’t matter. He’s surviving, and that’s all that counts.

* * *

 

(Though, he gets tired of the drugs eventually, and even more tired of the risk that comes with using. His career would be finished if he was caught, and the trust that other people have in him to carry out his duties capably would vanish in the wind like so much smoke. He can’t have that, no matter how much he hates himself. He has worked so hard, and other people have sacrificed so much to get him where he is now.

His mother would be ashamed of him if she could see him now, and that hurts as much as everything else.

So, he wrenches himself away from the drugs while he still feels like he can, but that leaves him feeling empty, hollow, and all the feelings he doesn’t want to feel come rushing back. It hurts, hurts so much, and he wants it to stop hurting.

It’s not the first time he’s taken a razor to his wrist, though it is the first time in over a year. But he doesn’t care anymore, doesn’t care that he’s relapsing. He watches the blood drip into the sink with almost a clinical curiosity. It doesn’t help much, but for the first few minutes after he does it, he has another pain to focus on, and it feels right. To carve scars into the outside to match what he feels on the inside.)

* * *

 

(Most of the time, he’s glad no one’s noticed what a downward spiral he’s on.

Some of the time, he isn’t.)

* * *

 

He’s not dealing with this well. He’s smart enough to know that, and what’s worse, he feels like other people are starting to catch on too. It’s not obvious, but it’s there in the sidelong glances whenever he walks into the office, in the way people sometimes fall silent whenever he walks into a room, in the way his friends are suddenly just… there, all the time. Laf and Herc and John will invite him out for drinks, and he’ll decline. Eliza will show up at the office with a packed lunch under her arm and won’t leave until he’s eaten all of it. Angelica will debate with him, engaging in the witty repartee that used to make him feel so alive. Peggy will text him memes that almost manage to make him laugh.

(He hasn’t laughed in a while.)

Even Jefferson and Madison seem to be worried, seeming to go softer on him than they usually do, and that, that stings. As if he’s not competent enough to take them on like he usually is. As if, as if he’s somehow become lesser. And that’s without them even knowing what’s going on, without them knowing exactly to what extent he’s fallen.

And Aaron… god, he doesn’t deserve him. Aaron is always there, always trying to figure out what’s wrong, always trying to see if he can help. But it’s not working, not enough, and Alex is starting to fear that they’re going to fall through.

If they do, it won’t be anyone’s fault but his.

If they do, Aaron will be better off.

* * *

 

(“Alex, tell me what’s going on,” Aaron demands one day, and Alex hates the way he freezes.

“I can’t,” he says, and Aaron’s face closes down, shutters in a way that it hasn’t since they started dating, since Alex finally broke past that ‘talk less, smile more’ mask he constantly shows to the world. And Alex gets the feeling that this is the beginning of the end.)

* * *

 

The first time he ends up on John’s doorstep, the first time the self-loathing and pity and aching, howling loneliness actually drive him to seek human company, John takes one look at his face and lets him in without question. He is reminded of exactly how good of a friend John is to him, better than he deserves. And for the first time since this all started, he considers telling someone what happened, considers tearing open the wound and bearing it for someone else to see in the hopes that they’ll be able to help him stitch it up afterward.

But if he tells John, John won’t keep it to himself. John will feel obligated to tell others, to tell his friends, to tell _Aaron_ , and he can’t let that happen.

And he knows he wouldn’t be able to bear the look in his eyes if he rolled his sleeves up to show him the raw, angry scars, the new lines he’s cut into himself. Knows that John, at least, will want to help him, but he can’t push his problems off on anyone else.

So he doesn’t. He holds his silence and lets the wound fester. _Better this way,_ he tells himself. _Now, the only person getting hurt is me._

And John, because John is amazing, doesn’t push. He knows that something is wrong, but he must also sense that Alex might actually shatter if driven too hard, because when they talk to each other, he makes obvious attempts to keep the mood light, to make him smile.

Sometimes, it even works.

And when it all seems to come crashing down, when the world gets to be too much to handle, John lets him stay over without pressing him for explanations, offering him the couch freely. Alex feels ten times safer and yet ten times less safe all at once without the sound of Aaron breathing by his side.

* * *

 

It can’t continue on like this. Something’s got to break, something’s got to give.

Something does.

* * *

 

He staggers home from John’s at six in the morning one day, exhausted from another night of restless sleep. But restless sleep is better than no sleep at all, and he is so grateful that John’s couch is still open to him, that John hasn’t pushed him away yet or insist he stop, because the only sleep he’s getting is on that couch. He’s not quite sure why he’s become unable to sleep in his own bed, the bed he shares with Aaron; maybe it’s the presence of another person, or maybe it’s the guilt that keeps him up at night, the guilt whenever he thinks of Aaron these days, the guilt that swells up within him when he thinks of all that he is hiding.

He closes the front door behind him softly and wanders into the living room. It’s late enough in the morning that he can take a shower and leave for work without interacting with Aaron at all. That’s probably for the best, even if the way he has been avoiding his boyfriend forms a sour feeling that twists in his gut.

And then, Aaron clears his throat, and Alex almost jumps ten feet in the air, wheeling around. Aaron is leaning back in one of the living room chairs, his hands folded in his lap, a mild expression on his face and a blank look in his eyes. “Nice to see you, Alex,” he says. “I wasn’t sure you’d be coming back this morning.”

His tone does not bode well; it is the tone he uses whenever he has a conversation he would rather not, or when he’s dealing with someone he would rather not be talking to. Alex feels the first tendrils of fear and dread wrap around his spine. He opens his mouth to reply, but Aaron raises a hand, effectively silencing him in a way that no one else is able to do.

“Did you really think,” he says, in a voice calm and even, “that I wouldn’t find out?”

And his blood runs cold.

_No._

_No no no no no no no no no._

_He can’t know, he can’t know, he can’t-_

_Those hands on him, taking-_

_Stop thinking about that and focus, damn it._

Alex feels himself stiffening, every muscle in his body seizing up. The silence has stretched between them for far too long; he needs to fill it somehow, fill it with words that will make this go away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he claims, cursing himself immediately afterward for the rasp in his voice and the way it came out sounding so pitiful and weak and small, because there’s no way that Aaron is going to let that slide.

“Yes you do,” Aaron refutes. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? The sneaking around, the way you’re avoiding me, all the lies? Honestly, Alex, do you think I’m stupid?”

_He knows. He knows, and he’s angry. Shit._

His heart rate doubles and triples and quadruples, a cacophony of drums, the pulses of which reverberate through his entire body. His breathing increases, and hie winces, taking a step back, hoping that Aaron won’t notice. His fingers fly down to play with the hem of his shirt, seeking something, anything to do that might distract him from all of this. _Mitigate the damage. Mitigate the damage. Think of something to say, goddamnit, you’re supposed to be good at this!_ “I don’t-- no, I don’t think that,” he starts. “But Aaron-”

Aaron shakes his head and stands, and oh god, there’s the anger. It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone but him, but from his perspective, it is clear to see in the tense set of his shoulders and the ice in his eyes. Anyone who thinks that cold can’t burn just as much as heat has never met Aaron Burr after he has been provoked. “Was I not enough for you?” he demands. “Was that what it was? Is it something I did, that made you--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head again and taking a step forward. Alex shifts backwards again in response, every fiber of his being screaming at him that this is _too close, too close!_ “I don’t get it,” he finishes, and stares at him, his hard gaze pinning him in one place like a butterfly fastened to a display case.

He sucks in a breath, hoping to gather some semblance of control. Tears begin to prick in the corners of his eyes, and he steadfastly ignores them. _I’m sorry,_ he wants to say. _I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want it, I never wanted it, I tried to make it stop but I couldn’t, please believe me. I love you. Don’t leave me._ But all of that sticks in his throat like glue, and all that ends up coming out is the first part. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, unable to find the ability to make it louder. And that must be the wrong thing to say, because Aaron’s eyes narrow, and when he speaks again, his voice has gone soft and dangerous in a way he has only heard a handful of times.

“How could you?” he asks, and Alex takes another step back because this, this is the tone Aaron reserves for when he is well and truly furious, and it frightens him. “My god, Alexander, do you even think before acting, or do you let your dick dictate everything you do? I _trusted_ you.”

 _No, please, please don’t be angry. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want to, I swear-_ He rests his eyes away from Aaron’s, casting them on the floor, and that seems to help. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Didn’t mean to what? To cheat? To hurt me? Or to let me find out?” Aaron scoffs. “It’s the Reynolds’ affair all over again, isn’t it? I was a fool for thinking you’d changed.”

“I would never intentionally-”

“Well, you did. Congratulations. I hope Laurens is worth it. Tell me, is it my name you whisper when he’s fucking you, or do you think of his when _we’re_ doing it? Did it, anyway; not like that’s been happening very much lately.”

Every single one of those words is pointed, sharpened, aimed to wound, but Alex barely notices. His brain has stuttered to a halt, because… what? Laurens? When did John get mixed up in this conversation? Unless… they’ve been having two different conversations here.

_He doesn’t know?_

_He thinks I’m cheating on him with John. And why wouldn’t he? I haven’t given him much to go on, and it’s not like I don’t have a… history with this sort of thing._

_But he’s wrong. He doesn’t actually_ know _._

That gives him the strength to look back up again, to meet Aaron’s eyes, to find a little of his old righteousness. He is back in his element, proving somebody wrong, correcting an error, and it feels familiar, comforting, safe, like slipping on a pair of favorite gloves. His eyes are wide and wild, he knows, and that can’t make him look particularly trustworthy, but he can thinks of right now is that he needs to tell him, needs to make him understand that he’s got it all wrong. Because he loves Aaron, and he has learned from his past mistakes. He wouldn’t do that to him. “Laurens?” he questions, and he still can’t make his voice go loud, but this will have to be good enough. “Laurens? You think I’m sleeping with-” But in that moment, the absurdity of the situation hits him, and he realizes that he is backed into a corner. If he says that he’s not sleeping with John, then he’ll have to admit what’s really going on, what really happened, and he doesn’t _want_ that. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to confess,” he finishes weakly, brokenly, his voice ripped by thousands of tiny shards of glass.

Something flashes behind Aaron’s eyes and he steps right into Alex’s space, glaring. “I know exactly what I’m asking you to confess, thanks,” he spits out acerbically.

Alex swallows hard and, in a split-second decision, reaches out for the first time in months. He is trying to place a hand on Aaron’s arm, to steady him, to prepare for what he is about to do. But Aaron’s mouth twists up in a bitters smile.

“If you touch me right now,” he states, enunciating every word carefully, “I’ll probably break your damn nose.”

It is not an idle threat, that much is obvious. Alex freezes.

"Get out,” Aaron orders in that same tone of voice.

The tears that he’s been keeping in check through this entire farce of a conversation finally begin to flow down his cheeks. He studies Aaron’s face, searching desperately for any sign that he doesn’t mean it, that any moment, he’ll take it back. But Aaron’s expression is as hard as stone, and he knows that he won’t change his mind.

So he runs. Bolts out the door and into the streets. He thinks he hears a sob coming from behind him, but it’s probably his imagination.

Or perhaps it’s him.

He doesn’t know anymore.

* * *

 

He runs without knowing where he’s going, without having a destination in mind, without thought for his own safety or even the safety of anyone else that might be nearby. He could stumble into oncoming traffic and he probably wouldn’t notice. His feet pound against the pavement in time to the beating of his heart, and for a while, that is all he can hear, that and the sound of his own ugly sobs.

There aren’t many people on the streets this time of morning, something for which he is grateful. He doesn’t want to garner unnecessary attention. Not now. He wouldn’t be able to handle it. Everything has fallen apart at his feet, too many broken pieces to pick up again, not without slicing up his hands in the meantime, and his hands are already sliced up anyway, but what does it matter, _what does it matter-_

A shard of glass in the street catches his attention, and he swerves to pick it up. He slices into himself as he runs, not minding the danger or how it must look to anyone who might be watching, lets the pain help him focus on something else, anything else. It doesn’t work well, persay, but it works enough, and the sharp sting and the hot blood running down his arms grounds him in reality, if only a little.

He doesn’t stop moving. He can’t.

If he stops moving, this will all be real, it’ll all catch up with him, and Aaron will be gone gone gone beyond his reach because he fucked up-

The past few years have been the eye of the hurricane, but he has been shoved back out into the storm, all alone again as the winds howl and the waves rip into the shore, and all he wants is to drown.

And then-- he is in front of a door, a familiar door, a welcoming door. His feet have guided him to John’s quite without his consent, but now that he’s here, he may as well make the best of it. He slams his fist against the door once, twice, three times and hopes that John opens up, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he doesn’t This is his last safe place, his last sanctuary, the last place he can go. He has nowhere else, not anymore, and if John’s door is closed to him, he will have nowhere at all.

The door opens, John’s face filling his vision, circles under his eyes and freckles scattered across his face like stars. “You forget something?” he jokes, though the look of concern and fear in his eyes as he takes in the sight before him undercuts any attempt to lighten the mood.

Alex shoves him backwards and smashes his lips into his, hungrily taking what he can get, even if it feels wrong, wrong, wrong. For a moment, John reciprocates eagerly, devouring his lips with his, seeking dominance in this kiss that is anything but gentle and kind. But then, he stops, freezes up, pulls back, and Alex can’t understand why; it’s obvious that he would not be unamenable to doing this.

“Alex,” he pants, his voice wrecked, “stop. Why’d you do that?”

He frowns. “He thinks I’m sleeping with you,” he reveals. “Might as well make it true, since he hates me now.” He moves in again, but John turns his head so that the kiss lands on his cheek.

“Who hates you?” he asks. “Aaron? Alex, you need to tell me what happened, alright?” He gently pushes him back, holding him at arm's length, looking him up and down with alarm and worry and distress and all sorts of emotions boiling in his eyes, which widen when they spot the bloody mess on his arms.

“Jesus Christ, Alex, you’re bleeding,” he breathes. “Shit, you idiot.”

“Yup,” he agrees, and bares his teeth in a horrible approximation of a smile. John takes one look at it and drags him into the bathroom, seating him on the lip of the bathtub. Alex doesn’t resist, doesn’t bother. Why should he? He watches as John pulls a first aid kit out of the cabinet, a first aid kit he usually only keeps for himself. John gets into a lot of fights, just like him.

“Remember that time you punched Lee in the face?” he asks, because that had been really funny. The look on Lee’s face…

“Yeah, Alex, I remember.” He tugs alcohol and gauze out of the kit. “Hold your arms out.”

He does, and registers John’s sharp intake of breath when he notices the exact nature of the wounds, meets his eyes without flinching when his head snaps up, panic etching itself into every line on his face.

“Alex,” he breathes, and it reminds Alex of how Aaron sounds whenever he comes home after a particularly nasty fight. Came home, anyway; he won’t be able to do that anymore. He doesn’t answer John, looking away. He lets him clean and bandage the cuts, barely feeling the sting, barely noticing when he’s done. He lets his mind drift, thinking of nothing and everything all at once. And then, there is a hand on his face, a hand that tilts his face a certain way, and-

_stop it don’t please_

-he flinches violently, almost falling to the floor. Without John’s hands on his shoulders to steady him, he would have.

“Alex, please.” That is John’s voice. He sounds awful. “Please, you have to tell me what’s going on.”

He meets his eyes, sees nothing but concern there, concern and worry and a desire to help. That’s John, always being there, not hating him even after he walked in here and practically forced himself on him. He couldn’t ask for a better friend, doesn’t deserve one.

He doesn’t want to talk. But for John, maybe he can try.

“I think Aaron broke up with me,” he whispers. “He… I…”

It’s all too much, far too much. Aaron is gone, and he’s still keeping too many secrets, and it is those secrets that drove Aaron away, and he doesn’t want to drive John away, but if he says something he will, he knows he will, but he can’t let that happen, he can’t he can’t he can’t, and something feels like it’s burning and he can’t tell what and his thoughts are flying apart and fracturing into tiny pieces and it’s all over now it’s all over over over

“Alex! Alex, breathe! You’ve got to breathe!” John’s voice comes in distantly, from down a long tunnel, and he dimly realizes that his lungs are what’s burning, that he’s not _breathing_. “Alex, focus on my voice, okay? Breathe with me, can you do that? In and out.”

 _Easier said than done._ But he tries, tries to focus in on the sound of John’s breathing, tries to match it. The first gulp of air he manages burns as it goes down, but it gets a little easier after that, and after a few minutes, it doesn’t quite feel like he’s dying anymore.

But that doesn’t change what happened, doesn’t make it go away, doesn’t make it better. He slides down to the cold tile floor and curls in on himself, hugging his knees close to his chest. John crouches next to him. “Better now?” he asks quietly, softly.

He laughs. “Sure.”

John must not like that response, because he makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat. “Alex, please, tell me what you need,” he says, and Alex laughs again, only, it comes out as more of a sob, because what does he _need_? Honestly, what doesn’t he need? Safety, stability, sanity, possibly a razor blade, his life back to normal, and the list just goes on and on and on.

But he’s lost all of that. Lost it the moment that man-

“Aaron,” he croaks. “I want Aaron.” More than anything, he wants his boyfriend back, wants to return to that love they shared with each other, that feeling of home.

“Okay,” John says, though he doesn’t appear to be particularly happy about it. “Okay. I’ll get him for you, just hang on a few minutes, alright? Will you be okay until then?”

Alex nods and watches John slowly exit the bathroom. _He won’t come,_ he doesn’t say. _He won’t come because he’s finally realized what a fucked up person I am. Doesn’t matter if he’s got the wrong reason. He knows now, and he hates me, and he won’t come._

“Burr, what the fuck did you do?” he hears John demand from another room. He must be on the phone, because there’s no way that he got Aaron here so quickly, or at all. Whatever Aaron says prompts a litany of curses, and then: “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but you need to get your ass over here and make it right.”

There is a beat of silence, and a noise that Alex can only describe as a growl. “Don’t play dumb with me, bastard,” John snaps. “Alex just showed up at my door and said you thought he was cheating on you with me. God, how stupid are you?”

Only a half-second of silence this time before he presses on. “And then it turned out he was _bleeding_ because he sliced his arms up and then he had a fucking panic attack, and god fucking damn it, Burr, you need to get your slimy ass over here and fix it.”

_No, wait, don’t tell him that. He doesn’t need to know about that._

A prolonged silence.

“Make it five,” John finally bites out, and there is the sound of something being slammed on a table, followed by another stream of swearing. Alex curls in on himself further. And then John is walking back into the bathroom and sitting by his side, close but not so close that he starts to panic.

“Your boyfriend’s a dick, you know that?” he says, which prompts a surprised laugh out of him.

“Yeah,” he agrees, then sobers. “Not my boyfriend anymore.”

John doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that, and they sit in silence for a few minutes.

Then, a knock on the door. Alex starts.

“I’ll get that,” John says and stands. “You’ll be okay?”

Alex nods, biting back a sarcastic comment only because he can’t believe that Aaron actually came. Wasn’t it less than an hour ago that Aaron was angry with him, that Aaron felt betrayed by him, that Aaron told him to leave? And yet, he came when John called him. He doesn’t quite know what to make of that.

There is a murmur of voices, a heated one that is probably John’s and a quiet one that must be Aaron’s, saying, “Give us a few moments.” And then there is a shadow falling over him, and Aaron is standing right there, standing on the doorway of the bathroom, eyes wide and red and looking frazzled in a way that Alex has never seen before. His eyes track up and down his folded frame, and when he sees the bloodstained gauze wrapped around his arms, his breath hitches.

“Alex,” he whispers, and Alex flinches, and when he does, Aaron flinches too, as if he had been physically struck. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, and Alex laughs, because seriously? Does he not remember?

“You told me to get out,” he reminds him, and takes petty satisfaction in the way the blow lands. “You told me to get out, so I left. I didn’t think you cared.”

Aaron closes his eyes, breathes in deeply. “Of course I care,” he replies. “Damn it, that’s the problem. I care too goddamn much.” He opens his eyes again, fixes them back on his arms. “How long has this been going on?” he asks quietly, a pleading note in his voice, and this is it. This is where it well and truly ends, because there’s nothing he can do now to get out of answering. He tightens his grip on his legs and buries his head in his arms, hoping to hide the tears that are starting to flow again.

“A couple months,” he admits, his voice muffled. But Aaron seems to hear him just fine, because he makes a choked sound and moves forward in one motion, ending up kneeling in front of him, gently tracing his arms, his shoulders, his back with shaking fingers.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks again, voice strangled. “God, Alex, why didn’t you tell me I was wrong? How could I have-” He breaks off.

“It didn’t matter,” Alex answers. “I was handling it. And besides, you weren’t wrong. Not about most of it.”

The gentle hands freeze. “What?”

Alex looks up, no longer caring if Aaron sees what a mess he is. He’s about to know the full truth anyway, and then he’s sure it won’t matter what his face looks like. Aaron’s face is still but for the matching tears beginning to glimmer in his eyes, the tears that look very, very out of place there because in all the time they’ve been dating, Alex has never seen Aaron cry.

“You weren’t wrong,” he repeats. “I didn’t want to, I, I tried not to, but I did and he did, and he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t stop, and-” He tapers off into a sob. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “God, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to.” And he has to stop, because his words are failing him, because this is when everything will crumple and fall apart for good and he can’t bear it.

But when he chances a glance at Aaron’s face, he doesn’t seem angry, not anymore, not like he was earlier. There is an odd expression on his face that he can’t quite interpret. “Alex,” he starts slowly, “what do you mean he wouldn’t stop?”

He looks away, counts the number of floor tiles directly to his left. Twenty-three. “What I said,” he replies, and looks back.

Aaron’s eyes have gone wide, almost comically so. His mouth works for a few second, but no sound comes out. “Alex,” he says, every word sounding like a struggle, “Alex, did you give consent?”

He looks away. “No,” he says.

Aaron makes another one of those choked, strangled noises, and when he speaks, Alex is surprised by the ferocity of it. “Alex, that’s _rape_ , god, Alex, you should have told me, you didn’t have to, on your own, god.” His words border on babble, which is interesting, because Aaron is never anything but concise. He opens his mouth to say something along this line, simply to have something, anything to say, but Aaron cuts him off by tugging him forward into a hug. He blinks, shocked, the physical contact making him tense. And yet, it is not entirely unwelcome. He hasn’t let Aaron hold him like this for… he doesn’t know how long now, and it feels surprisingly nice. “I am so, so sorry,” Aaron whispers in his ear. “You should never have had to deal with this, especially not on your own.”

Alex shudders. Might as well go all out at this point. What else does he have left to lose? “I’ve been cutting,” he admits, “and I was using for a little while. But I stopped.”

Aaron’s grip tightens. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. We’ll deal with it, Alex, we’ll deal with all of it, but please, let me help you. You don’t have to do this on your own.” He breaks off, takes in a shaky breath. “You should never have had to feel like you had to, Alex. I am so, so sorry.”

And Alex, for the first time in months, allows himself to completely break down into tears, uninhibited by the feeling that he should hold himself together, that he should be hiding what happened, and he buries his face into Aaron’s chest. Aaron holds him and doesn’t let go, and Alex hadn’t realized that that was something he needed until now, hadn’t realized that he needed someone to be with him while he went to pieces.

 _I’m an idiot,_ he thinks.

And now, as he cries, he listens to Aaron’s heartbeat, strong and steady, if a little fast, he feels safer, not quite as fragile, because he has people who want to help, who will help, and he should have trusted to that from the start. He is far from okay, of course, he recognizes that easily, and it will likely be a long, long time before he feels like anything approaching normal. It will be an uphill battle from here, far from an easy one.

But he takes comfort in that from here, things can get better.

He takes comfort in that from here, he won’t be alone.

He rests his head against Aaron’s shoulder, exhausted, and he takes comfort in that maybe, just maybe, they’ll be enough.


End file.
